Tib. From our long-desiring father.
Dul. Is this your father’s true proportion?
[Shows a picture.
Tib. No, lady; but the perfect counterfeit.
Dul. And the best graced——
Tib. The painter’s art could yield.
Dul. I wonder he would send a counterfeit
To move our love! 110
Gon. Hear, that’s my wit, when I was eighteen old—such a pretty toying wit had I; but age hath made us wise. Hast not, my lord?
Tib. Why, fairest princess, if your eye dislike
That deader piece, behold me his true form
And livelier image. Such my father hath been.
Dul. My lord, please you to scent this flower.